Project Rainbow
by Missy Skywalker
Summary: Dark Ishvalan AU: It took him coughing up blood on five different occasions for Edward Elric to finally give in and see a doctor. One-shot. [Rated for language only]


**A/N: This story has no connection to my other Ishvalan AU, _The Ishvalan Accords_. If you want a lighter take on an Ishvalan AU (in a much longer format), check it out!**

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It took him coughing up blood on five different occasions for Edward Elric to finally give in and see a doctor.

He waited until the new bookstore down the street from the military dorms opened, so that Alphonse would be properly distracted. Because once Alphonse saw their thorough selection of pristine books on everything from alchemy to pet-keeping, Edward would hardly be missed. And there was no point in worrying Alphonse for no reason.

So on the day of their first visit to _Florence's Uptown Collection_ , Edward supplied some half-assed excuse about military paperwork and slipped away, without Al so much as glancing upward, his drool practically dribbling onto the floor. (Or at least it would have been if he wasn't trapped in a suit of armor.)

The military medical clinic was close, and being a State Alchemist, Edward spent less than five minutes in the waiting room before he got called to the back. He jumped from his chair and followed a nurse through a sterile hallway, all while ignoring the glares from the other waiting room attendants who'd been waiting far longer than he had.

Edward then underwent a series of rigorous tests, from blood samples to thorough surveys about everything from his alcohol habits to the soil conditions in his home town. By the time the actual doctor came into the consultation room, Edward was exhausted, annoyed, and regretting that he'd even come in at all.

 _But still. Coughing up blood was definitely bad, right?_

The doctor, a no-nonsense sort, wasted no time with pleasantries.

"Why are you lying to us?" he asked, rummaging through the papers attached to his clipboard.

"I'm not!"

"Well, can you please explain then how you're displaying every symptom of Project Rainbow exposure?"

Of all of the possibilities Edward had considered, this one hadn't even occurred to him. For a moment, his mind went blank, the background hum of the clinic's generators pulsing in his ears.

At Edward's silence, the doctor continued.

"The only people who were exposed to that shit –at least to do this amount of damage- would be the Amestrian soldiers who transported it to Ishval and the Ishvalan targets themselves. And you're certainly not old enough to have been a soldier then. Hell, you're not old enough to be a soldier now!" The doctor sighed, removing his glasses and wiping them an off-color segment off his lab coat, right next to his identification badge reading 'Doctor Rosarch.'

"So what is it, kid?" he asked, reaffixing his rounded glasses atop his nose. "Can you explain this, or do I have to start smashing some bureaucratic noses in to get some answers?"

Edward glanced towards the ticking clock above the doorway, unable to say anything that wouldn't condemn him further.

The doctor sighed again, but this time he set the clipboard down. He leaned over the counter, allowing a golden locket to fall free of his lab coat and rest against his chest. Inside, a tiny photograph of a smiling collection of redheads waved.

"I hate to be the deliverer of bad news, kid," Dr. Rosarch said, and Edward tore his eyes from the locket. "But this… doesn't look good for you."

"What? I thought you were gonna give me some pills and I'd be fine next week? Isn't that what you're supposed to do?"

"Whatever dosage of Project Rainbow you were exposed, it wasn't lethal at that time. But it's been brewing in your blood for many years. I don't think… I don't think that there's anything modern medicine can do for you now." Dr. Rosarch twisted his locket around his index finger and began skimming through the clipboard again.

"What do you mean?"

"Given the toxicity of the Project Rainbow," the doctor said, his tone professional and distant, "it would be a medical miracle if you make it to the end of the year."

"What?"

Dr. Rosarch's eyes softened, and he reached his hand forward like he was going to grab onto Edward, but Edward jerked away before he got close.

"The year? This year? But… I have things to do. I have to get our bodies back. I promised Al!" Edward said, barely aware of the words pouring from his lips. "Die? I can't… _die._ I'm fifteen! I can't…" Edward trailed off, and he suddenly got the urge to punch the doctor in the nose, certain that it would solve at least one of his problems.

"I _am_ sorry," Dr. Rosarch said.

"There's really nothing you can do? I'll do anything! I'll try anything!"

"I'll prescribe you some pain medication," he said, rummaging through his pocket for a pen. "That'll at least make you more comfortable."

Edward barely remembered punching the doctor (with his automail fist no less) and the ensuing shouting match with the clinic's security. Despite bleeding profusely, the doctor actually convinced the security guards not to make a fuss, and Edward was sent back to the dorms, one bottle of pain pills richer and a promise to return to the clinic next week.

His life, in just a few minutes, had completely fallen apart.

There was only one thing he knew for certain: no one could know, even Alphonse.

Especially Alphonse.

For the moment, Edward successfully hid any sign of abnormality, and yet, the end of the year was closing in around him. Every day was a precious gift, but the clocks continued to chime, heedless to his desperation to hold onto every second. But with each passing day, his darts to the bathroom to vomit or to cough up blood were becoming more and more frequent.

Though Alphonse often worried aloud over Edward's continuing weight loss, Edward shrugged it off as stress. But Edward couldn't keep much food down anymore, so he began eating less and relying more on his pills to get him through the day.

Sometimes the room spun. Sometimes he wished he was already dead.

Sometimes he wished that someone –anyone besides that awful doctor- knew the truth.

And yet, even though Edward was beginning to feel his body treacherously failing inside him, part of him believed that one of these days he'd wake up completely healthy.

The year was slipping away from him. It was already mid-October. And it was on an average autumn day, punctuated with a crisp breeze indicating that the bitterness of winter was just around the corner, that Edward, not unusually, had to deliver a report to the Colonel. Edward had been avoiding Mustang and the rest of his team since the diagnosis, but Edward _was_ a dog of the military and when his masters pulled his leash, he was forced to obey.

If, on that average October day, Edward had moved just a little bit faster -if he hadn't waited for the old lady on the motorcycle to pass or if he'd gone ahead to Eastern Command instead of waiting for Alphonse to finish his readings- the fit would've come in the hallway and not, like it did, in front of Mustang's desk.

Edward handed the report to Mustang, ignoring the bastard's condescending smirk and the snide remarks on Edward's messy handwriting. What did insults like that matter if he was _dying_?

That was Mustang's first clue.

The second, of course, would be Edward coughing up blood all over Mustang's desk. He'd tried to hold it in, he really had, but the blood had seeped through the gaps in his fingers, and now everyone in the office was staring at him.

"Fullmetal?" Mustang asked, suddenly concerned. And Edward wished he wouldn't be. Not when it was partially his fault in the first place.

"'m fine," Edward muttered, pivoting toward the entrance, ignoring Hawkeye, who'd slowly risen from her desk.

"You don't look fine," Mustang said, and if Edward had managed to escape the office, he might have gotten away with it. But Alphonse was right behind him, blocking his getaway, and Edward had to cough again.

Except it wasn't a cough, he figured out with two seconds to spare. It was bile. He grabbed Havoc's wastebasket and heaved into it, only distantly aware of the gasps behind him. But vomiting occupied most of his attention, so he focused on not choking, at least until his stomach had heaved all of its contents. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and focused on breathing evenly.

"How long have you been ill?"

"Is that why you've gotten so thin?"

"What's going on?"

"Are you okay, brother?"

The last question was the worst, and Edward didn't know what to say. Except that he had to vomit again. He held his braid away from his lips and heaved, but his stomach had already emptied his breakfast a long time ago. His eyes watered, and he collapsed onto the ground.

"Someone call a doctor!" a voice shouted, and the room blurred. Though Edward wanted to protest, by the time he'd gathered the willpower to speak, the room had already faded to black.

Edward was only vaguely aware of someone feeling his pulse and checking his fever. An unknown person mumbled something about having no idea what was wrong with him.

"It says on his file that he's been visiting Dr. Rosarch every few weeks. Let's call him over."

Again, Edward wanted to protest, but his lips were heavy and no words would come out. The next thing he knew, his doctor from the clinic, Dr. Rosarch, was shaking him from side to side.

"Doctor!" someone shouted, but as Edward was jostled, he was able to gradually focus on Rosarch's thin, pointed nose.

"Dr. Rosarch," a young man began in a pompous voice, "I completed the basic medical examination and-"

The doctor ignored him.

"You didn't tell anyone?" Dr. Rosarch asked Edward, who frankly wanted to be anywhere else in the entire universe except this military office. Considering that he was dying, the universe owed him some karma points, and he'd have used all of them up if only he could have teleported out of that room. "Not anyone? You said you'd told your brother! Your commanding officer!"

The doctor sighed and pushed himself into an upright position, leaving Edward alone on the floor and leaning against Mustang's desk, which was stained with specks of bile.

The doctor turned towards the waiting group.

"Edward Elric is dying," he said, pushing his glasses up past the ridge of his nose. "I'm sorry."

The reactions were loud and shook of disbelief, but the only one Edward heard was a quiet, "Brother?"

The room silenced, and Edward couldn't bring himself to look up at Alphonse's gleaming red eyes, trapped in armor Edward would never get to free him of.

"I'm sorry, Alphonse," Edward said, his gaze still focused downward.

"He can't be-that's impossible," Mustang said. "He's just a kid! He's a perfectly healthy teenager and-"

The doctor shook his head, "He's been exposed to toxic levels of Project Rainbow. That he hasn't keeled over yet is a miracle."

The doctor's brutal way of speaking had enraged Edward at their first meeting, but now he appreciated the honesty. Though he doubted anyone else did, considering the horrified expressions mirrored across the room, distorting everyone's faces but Alphonse's, whose mask hid his emotions behind unfeeling steel.

But even though Al's body required no physical strength to hold it up, Al's metal armor collapsed, the force of his knees cracking the military-approved tiles.

" _Brother_."

Before Edward could even respond though, his stomach heaved again. He didn't have the strength to grab the wastebasket from his vantage point, but luckily Dr. Rosarch saw what Edward was trying to do and brought it close to his face. Edward hung his neck into it, but nothing slid up his throat, despite his constant gagging. By the time he finished, his whole body shook, and the doctor passed him a circular white pill. Edward didn't bother asking what it was for, swallowing it without any water.

No one had spoken throughout these proceedings, but Edward didn't have the energy to worry about what they were thinking. No one except Alphonse really mattered anyway.

"Project Rainbow?" Alphonse asked finally, his youthful voice -so disparate from his size- echoing in his armor.

"Yes," Dr. Rosarch said. "But I still don't understand how he could have been exposed to such high levels of it. Its toxicity would cause… well, it would cause this." He gestured to all of Edward's body, which was destroying itself from the inside, all because of a chemical Edward couldn't control. "Edward hasn't told me anything about how it could have happened. Do you know, Alphonse?"

The reality of his situation finally had dawned on Edward. He suddenly realized that now, at the end, it didn't really matter if they knew. Edward had gone to such lengths to protect his secrets, but what did it matter now? The closer you came to death, the more things were stripped of their seeming importance.

"Our mother was Ishvalan," Alphonse said. "We were born in Ishval. During the war. We must've been exposed to Project Rainbow. A lot of it, I guess."

"Yeah," Edward croaked, speaking for the first time since he'd woken up again. He could imagine the shock and horror on the others' faces, but he didn't dare glance up from the tile beneath him.

"You're Ishvalan?" someone asked, and Edward nodded, ignoring how the movement made his head spin.

"So that's how it is then," Dr. Rosarch said. And possibly sensing the awkward atmosphere in the room, he turned to Edward. "Have you started on what we talked about last time?"

"You mean my will?" Edward asked, finally lifting his head up to meet Rosarch's dark eyes. "Yeah, I'm working on it."

"As a major in the Amestrian military, you know you could get a military burial-" the doctor began.

"I don't WANT a military burial," Edward said, and at last he felt enough strength in his bones to hoist himself from the floor. The dramatic gesture was lost by the necessity of leaning heavily on Mustang's desk, but it felt like a victory to Edward. "The only reason I'm fucking dying is because of the fucking military." Edward let out a humorless laugh. "We thought we were so lucky, didn't we, Al?"

Edward still wouldn't dare look at Alphonse.

"We thought we were so lucky," Edward continued, holding in his urge to cough. "We survived the fucking War of Extermination. We escaped to Amestris and lived normal fucking lives." Edward shook his head. "But the fucking joke was on us. And the fucking extermination was fucking thorough."

Edward coughed into his palm and ignored the splatter of blood on his fingers.

"So, no, not having a fucking military burial," Edward said. "The military can go fuck off for all I care." Edward dug his hands into his pocket and found the cool exterior of his pocket watch. He grabbed it and then flung it with all of his strength at Mustang's head. But Edward's strength had been deteriorating for months now, so it lost some of the effect Edward was going for. Instead of hitting Mustang, it crashed onto Hawkeye's desk, but at the very least, it made a loud noise, which Edward was proud of.

"Brother?"

And Edward could not delay the moment any longer. He turned to Alphonse, hating how Al's face presented a blank slate despite his current devastation.

"Al?"

"We were supposed to get our bodies back together, brother! This isn't- I can't- I don't-"Alphonse buried his head into his hands, as though he were stifling a sob. "What are we gonna do now? I can't do this without you!"

No one said anything, and for a full minute, the only thing audible was the clanking of Alphonse's knees as he rocked back and forth on the tile.

"How-how could you not tell me, Edward?" Al asked finally.

"Al… I don't want to die." And Alphonse ran to his side, embracing him tightly. Even though Alphonse couldn't feel it, Edward squeezed the cold armor as though it were Al's skin.

"I can't believe you didn't tell your CO," Rosarch muttered behind them. "You shouldn't have been on active duty for weeks. You should be at home resting-"

"I'm doing what I have to do," Edward said, unable (or perhaps, unwilling) to suppress the bitterness in his voice.

"No, you're killing yourself faster," Dr. Rosarch shot back.

"What does it matter?" Edward asked, hating how quiet his booming voice had become. "This month? Next month? Does it make a difference? I'm trying to do everything I can before I-" Edward broke off, and suddenly, all he wanted was to be far away from this office. Away from the pitying eyes, away from the tears that lined Kain Fuery's cheeks, away from the self-loathing grimace that Mustang couldn't hide.

But Edward didn't have the strength to move, never mind storm out in typical Edward Elric fashion, so his body did the only thing it could:

It passed out.

The next time he awoke he was in a hospital room, connected to beeping machines rhythmically assuring Edward that, for the moment, he was still alive. Alphonse sat by the window, completely still, while Mustang hissed into a phone mounted on the wall.

"Hughes, you gotta come down. I don't know what I'll do if- well, I don't trust myself right now… please, just take the first train you can."

The rest of his conversation was brief, and as soon as he hung up the phone, Edward scrambled to fake sleep.

Because Mustang was the last person he wanted to deal with.

"I know you're awake, Fullmetal," Mustang said dully. And Alphonse reanimated, rushing to Edward's bedside.

"Brother?" His voice was delicate, as though he were afraid Edward would break. "How are you feeling?"

Edward bit back the sarcastic retort about how he was _dying_ , only because it was Alphonse, and he just muttered that he was fine. Mustang shook his head, but rather than call him out on his lies, he merely offered some bullshit excuse and fled. But before he closed the door behind him, Mustang glanced back at Edward, "I'm sorry."

He didn't wait for a response, which was good because Edward didn't have one.

"Al?"

"Hm?"

"Promise me something, Al," Edward said, hating how accurate those stupid pamphlets from the clinic about the stages of grief were becoming.

"Anything," Al said.

"When I… well, just keep trying to get your body back. No matter what," Edward said. Al's oversized hands grabbed onto his, and Edward latched on, suddenly reminded of the comfort his mother's touch used to bring him. When was the last time he'd held someone's hand?

"I was thinking," Al said, his voice only slightly shaking, "I was exposed to a lot of Project Rainbow too, wasn't I? What if… what if this body is the only reason I'm even here?"

"Don't say that!" Edward said. "You have to get your body back no matter what. Promise me!"

"I promise," Al said. "I won't stop fighting. For my body and… for Ishval."

"Ishval," Edward whispered, the very word soothing on his tongue after not speaking of it for so many years. "Ishval… I'd hoped to see it again. It's been a long time."

"It has," Alphonse said. "It's not much to look at now though, brother."

"It's still Ishval though. It's still home, just as much as Resembool is."

"Speaking of which, um, Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't be mad, but… I told Winry and Granny about you," Al said. "It's just that they deserve to know and they need to see you- I mean, obviously because they've known us for so long and… so they're getting on a train tomorrow morning, and I know that you might not want- but I just needed to make sure that they'd-"

"It's okay, Al. That was a good idea," Edward said, even though seeing Winry and Granny was the last thing he wanted. Although it made his stomach churn to imagine Winry's reaction, it seemed only fair for them to… come say goodbye. As impossible as it was for him to imagine, these people, unlike him, weren't confined by a rapidly approaching date of finality. The world would continue to turn without him in it, and so giving them some kind of closure felt like the right thing to do.

The next day Edward took a turn for the worse. Everyone knew it, and even he could feel it. He was removed from solid foods altogether, and he spent more time coughing up blood than not. That afternoon nearly everyone he knew in Eastern Command squeezed into his sterile hospital room. They tried to make him laugh, and even though it made his insides burn, it was the good kind of pain.

Major Armstrong stripped and displayed his bulging muscles, and Havoc engaged him in elaborate stories of his failed romantic exploits. Anything unpleasant was taboo.

That was, of course, until Dr. Rosarch stepped in. Because, unlike everyone else, he didn't know how to avoid the unpleasantries, so as soon as he arrived he dove into the topic of Edward's will.

"Do you really have to ask that now?" someone asked.

"I just finished reviewing it," Dr. Rosarch said, carrying a few loose pieces of paper that somehow would live beyond Edward's final breaths.

"So…?" Edward asked.

It wasn't so much that he was close with the doctor. But Rosarch had been his only companion in the truth for enough weeks that Edward had grown accustomed to his clinical façade.

"I don't know if your wishes can be granted," Dr. Rosarch said slowly, fiddling with his locket.

"They'll be granted," Mustang growled. "What are they?"

"I want it to be completely Ishvalan. Ishvalan death rites, cremation, and my… ashes scattered in Ishval." When had it become so easy to talk about the future of his body after he vacated it?

"I know," Dr. Rosarch said, rifling through the meager will again. "But, kid, no one's allowed in Ishval these days. The military-"

"Done," Mustang said, turning to Edward. "Don't worry, Fullmetal, we'll do it. I swear."

"I- thanks-" Edward began, but he'd always been one to ruin moods.

He started heaving again, and already familiar with Edward's physical needs, Alphonse provided him with a small bucket. He didn't have the energy to feel embarrassed, not even when Al dabbed at the vomit stains on his chin.

"It's just not fair," Edward heard Havoc mutter from the corner. Others nodded, and Edward soon drifted back to sleep.

When he woke up again, it was already dark. Which meant that it had to be Wednesday night. Winry and Granny were due in on Friday, and he was dreading Winry's tears. Although Edward had been the recipient of a conveyor belt of guests whenever he'd stirred for more than a minute, they'd all remained stoic in front of him. Edward didn't comment on their dried tear stains or their flushed cheeks, because he didn't know what he'd do if they began crying again.

And then Thursday night he lost all feeling in his body below his neck. The nurses' expressions were grim, and Edward knew that his body, which had been fighting for so long, had begun to fail. It wasn't his body's fault that he'd been exposed to noxious fumes, meant to destroy all vegetation in Ishval for easier Amestrian conquering. And if Ishvalans died too, who cared? It was an extermination, after all.

But his anger had mostly abated, as he struggled to take each breath.

"We could put him on artificial life support-"

"But his kidney numbers are-"

"At least he'd be alive."

"No," Edward forced out. "Please… don't… prolong this."

He was declared dead thirteen minutes later.

Alphonse was by his side, holding his hands as his breathing slowed, and their friends hovered protectively around them, ready to embrace Alphonse as his only blood relation slipped away.

Because Winry and Granny's train was still seven hours outside of East City.

But the thing that felt the most unfair though was how little Edward knew when he died.

He couldn't have known that, on the days after his death, Mustang called in every favor he had and bent every rule, moving heaven and earth, just so that Edward's ashes could be spread in Ishval, his friends and family by his side one last time.

And Edward couldn't have known that Alphonse was just six months away from getting his body back, and that it was miraculously free of any Project Rainbow toxicity.

And Edward couldn't have known that years later, as Ishvalans and Amestrians alike campaigned to right the wrongs of the Ishvalan War, people took up _his_ name as a rallying cry. His name was both a beacon of hope, as the People's Alchemist, and a symbol of all of the tragedies that the Ishvalans were forced to endure.

And Edward couldn't have known that when the Amestrian Parliament passed the congressional bill allowing Ishvalans to return to Ishval and rebuild their devastated countryside, it was named the _Edward Elric Bill of Ishvalan Reconstruction_. And he couldn't have known that one of the first construction projects in Ishval was of a statue of him- on a pedestal, of course, so he could look down on everyone.

And Edward couldn't have known that his very name was spoken in the same reverent breath as his brother's, who'd been leading the charge for Ishvalan justice for all these years.


End file.
